


Fate Up Against Your Will

by LucyBrown45



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Donnie Darko AU (sort of), M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 05:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13183566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyBrown45/pseuds/LucyBrown45
Summary: A Donnie Darko AU: Credence is just trying to get through high school. His therapist helps, but now there’s a new teacher. And a rabbit called Frank.





	Fate Up Against Your Will

**Author's Note:**

> A Donnie Darko AU with all the time travel stripped out and added influence from Call Me By Your Name.
> 
> I’m not sure. I hope this is fun.

It is his own voice that wakes him. A low thrumming, moan that growls to be let out. Open your mouth. A sharp intake of breath has him struggling to sit up, hacking coughs laddering his ribcage, straining his throat. He twists, places his hands on the ground and gets to his knees. All the better to get the choking beast out. Tongue curled painfully against his bottom teeth, making passage. 

He stutters. Air dried up. Hangs his head and gulps shallowly. His shoulders ache. The burn seizing up from his chest. The hard tarmac presses into the soft flesh of his palms and through the thin cotton of his pyjamas. He settles back on his heels. Cups his hands in his lap. Breathes in through his nose. Closes his eyes. A fall breeze ghosts through his hair and into the leaves of the evergreens above him. 

He looks over his shoulder. His bike is sprawled across the road. The handles protruding precariously over the ridge of the canyon. The sky is a mottled grey edging into dark purple further down in the valley. The pinpricks of street lights smattering the early morning. Cicadas screech unruly, preparing for sleep. He roughs the pads of his fingers over his forehead, under the short bangs. It feels bruised. Stuffed with jagged cardboard. 

A nightjar’s eyes flash warning at him. He heaves his body to its feet. Bones like set cement and drags his bike to standing. He can’t quite get his limbs up into the saddle and so carefully begins walking it in the direction of home. It is Saturday. 

The arch of the cliff eventually gives way to the flat roads of the suburbs, weekend light splashed magazine-like across the neighbours’ lawns, mom cars taking kids to soccer practice, Jeremiah out with the dog. He slowly mounts the bike, his feet feel numb and the plastic of the peddles sharp against the soft nakedness of his soles. 

Jennie and Maureen Lakeland wave at him as he passes by, their neon sweatbands too bright for the day. He is still squinting when he blurs past two men finagling a large orange banner advertising the dates of the Halloween carnival. Too much, too soon. 

Chastity is waving the car keys at dad. They spot him and call his name but he carries on to the garage. He leaves his bike leant against the wall and makes his way into the kitchen, managing to smile at Modesty bouncing energetically on the trampoline. He opens the fridge and drinks straight from the milk carton. He turns and through the French doors, mom lowers her book to her knees at watches him. Chin in her hand. 

She’s reading _The Satanic Verses_. Hypocrite, he thinks. He puts the milk back in the fridge. Hands clutch his shoulders as he closes the door. “Where were you, Credence?” She smells like _Dawn_ dishwashing liquid and _Estee Lauder_. Her eyes are dark like his and they bore into the side of his face. He says nothing. She brings him close to her, his body angled awkwardly to her breast. 

In a swish of pink coral housecoat, she holds him at arm’s length. She taps the underside of his chin, forcing him to look at her. She touches under his eyes with her thumb. Her cherry red nails edging his eyelashes. “Go sleep, darling. Go on.”

At dinner, Mom has put one too many _Celeste_ frozen pizzas in the oven and the wilting salad is going ignored. Modesty slurps at her _Pepsi_. Chastity side eyes her sister before setting her fork, prongs downward, onto her plate. “I’m voting for Bush.”

Dad hums and meets Mom’s eyes. Smiles at her raised eyebrow. “That’s good, Chastity. Very good.”

Mom sips her wine. The corners of her mouth tilted in amusement.  
`  
“Because of the family campaign ads?”

Chastity clears her throat. “No. Because Dukasis broke his tax promises in Massachusetts. Those people are still paying for him.”

Dad laughs heartily, revealing pizza in his molars. Mom lifts her glass to him and then to Chastity. “She’ll be off to a good start at Dartmouth.”

Chastity blushing, looks away. “Mom, I’ve not been accepted yet.”

“You’ll do fine.”

“And then every idiot in a Brooks Brothers’ button-down can listen to your dumb economic policy instead of us.” Credence hadn’t meant to speak. He’s still got pizza swollen cheeks. Faux mozzarella sticking to his tongue. Mom lowers her wine glass. Dad moves the salad bowl away from Credence’s elbow as though he might reach for it. Only one time he’d done that. He hadn’t hurt anybody. 

He swallows. Mumbles, “Sorry.” 

“You’re never sorry.”

His pizza falls from his hands with a doughy squelch. “I said I was sorry, Chastity.”

Dad looks at Modesty. Brings his hands up to hover his ears. Mouths, don’t listen. Mom looks at the ceiling.

“You’d be sorry if you stopped doing it.”

“I’m sorry that mom and dad would rather pay a therapist two hundred dollars an hour than let me join in dinner conversation. Wanna swap?”

A heavy, awkward pause descends. Modesty reaches for the salad bowl and begins picking the cucumber out. Dad selects an outsized lettuce leaf and drips dressing on the front of his shirt. 

“Do mom and dad know you’ve stopped taking your medication?”

Credence bolts from the table. Mom stretches her arm out to try and catch him around the waist, but he pushes her away. His feet pound on the stairs and his bedroom door slams. 

“Can I have a Twinkie?” Modesty is of the firm belief that this will make everything better.

He’s angry and he feels sorry for himself. His head hurts and he longs to lie down despite his afternoon nap. He leans back against the headboard and picks up _Brighton Rock_ , haphazardly leafing through its pages.

She knocks, but doesn’t wait before opening the door and letting herself into his room. He sighs as she drifts in and places herself on the bed, next to his thighs. She takes the book from him and closes it on the nightstand. She always does this. Always gets too close. Always want to be near him. Like he’s an extension of her. “Where do you go at night?”

She knows Chastity wouldn’t lie. That’s not what she’s going after. 

“Nowhere.” He shrugs.

Mom nods. She smoothes her thumb over his eyebrow. Looks at him while moving her head from side to side as though to catalogue the symmetry of his features. “Credence, if something’s going on. Something like sixth grade-“

“Mom, please,” he risks interrupting her. He doesn’t want this conversation. He feels hot. 

She sits up, but doesn’t shuffle away. “Fine. I’ll let you read.” 

He watches her eyes track a path from his forehead and down to cross his collarbones exposed by his stretched t-shirt and back up. She blinks. 

She sweeps her housecoat around her dramatically. Floral perfume blossoming into the air. She pauses at the doorway, takes another hard look at him. He stares back. He won’t blink. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Her with her endless chatter. And Chastity. Dad never wanting to rock the boat. Modesty being too young. All of them, all of them always too close. Housing him in. Their presence overwhelming, leaving no room to think or breathe or even know what is him and what is them. 

She closes the door behind her and hears the dull thud of a paperback hitting it. 

He feels bad. He’d been a bad kid. He thinks he still is a bad kid. Just now. Now, he has a valid reason. Or at least an excuse. He’s not sure. He sighs and leans his head back, he catches sight of the _Joy Division_ poster that Mom had never commented on. The _Scotch Tape_ roughing the embossed wallpaper that matches the rest of the house. A loose thread on his mom’s tapestry of pride. She was good. Sometimes. 

He gets up, moves the book to the shelf and quietly makes his way to the bathroom. Chastity’s voice floats out into the hallway. The boyfriend is whining. Credence scrunches his nose. He’s not keen on the guy. When he’d come to dinner, he’d drunk the last _Pepsi_ and Modesty had silently and bitterly accepted a glass of milk instead. 

Credence avoids his own gaze reflected back to him in the medicine cabinet. He takes his pills dry. The day washes over him and feeling bone-tired he curls into the soft down of his comforter. He pulls bunny hot-water bottle close to his tummy, even though she’s filled with long-cold water. The waves sooth him. 

\---

“Wake up.”

Credence coughs and rolls over onto his back.

“Wake up. Credence.”

He sits up with superhuman strength. Eyes half lidded, head still lolling slightly. He bumbles his way down the stairs, the back of his arm brushing the banister. Static through the downy hair. 

Dad is asleep in the _Laz-y Boy_. The television fuzzing with post-midnight static. Dad is free with his body. Still wears his college tees that strain over his beer pouch. He doesn’t mind dancing with mom in Greek restaurants. Will scratch his nose in public. Yet, it’s weird to see him so vulnerable. Feet bare, the old-fashion long-johns he wears at night rolled up to his knees. Lulled back to sleep in the living room after dozing fitfully in bed. Like a babe. Credence takes the pen from his dad’s notebook.

“Closer”

Credence follows the voice. Stareyes the hallway chandelier. It glitters a homewelcome normally, but now appears cold, pushing him out the door. 

The Leavenworth house across the street looks exactly the same as theirs. Except they have large bushels of lavender hugging their front path. It still smells sweet despite the approaching fall. Maybe reflex memory scenting the neighbourhood. 

Credence looks up to the sky. It is black. Endlessly. He wants to reach out. Press his fingertips into the night cloak and pick starlight with his nails. Scratch daylight from other universes. Claim it for this moment in time. 

Frank says not to do that. Credence startles at the realisation that he is not alone. Close to the road, Frank spreads his arms, palms up. No need to steal plasma. He nods his head sagely. Chrome rabbit mask contorted, too heavy for his neck. 

“28 days… 6 hours... 42 minutes... 12 seconds.” He wraps his arms around his stomach, calm hands suddenly agitated, disappearing into the fur of the rabbit suit. “That is when the world will end.”

Credence concentrates on breathing deeply. 

\---

“Kid? Credence Barebone? Credence Barebone.”

The light is blinding and he doesn’t like the way they’re saying his name. He clutches his dad’s pen tighter and holds his arm over his face to better see who is talking. Two men who look like dad are looming over him. Laughing at him. He gets to his feet with as much grace as he can muster. 

“Are you alright, son?”

They jackrabbit a joke abut sleep-golfing and that’s when Credence realises he’s on the green. The cheerful yellow of their sweater-vests sends his stomach swirling. They’re wearing white baseball caps. It’s not that sunny, he thinks. He shivers. 

“Sorry, Doctor Fisher.” 

He looks around, trying to leave. There are digits written on his arm. He feels foreign from the inside out; his vision blurred and when he rubs the pads of his fingers over the ink, his arm feels numb. His voice shudders up, “W’t happen again.”

He steps away from them and the friend doesn’t bother to whisper. “Weird kid.”

The golf course is closer to home than where he ended up the night before, but the walk is still hard going on his barely clothed, tired frame. His skin feels brisslebrushed and he pushes his thumbs into the skin of his elbows as he walks. 

There’s a crowd of people in his street and the flash of a fire engine makes the back of his eyes ache. He tries to push past a cop, his house is crumpled in on itself and a cop is trying to keep him from it. “I live here.” Dazed, the cop’s hands fall, accidently caressing his ribs. 

His bedroom hosts a jet engine. 

They don’t know where it came from.

Mom and dad don’t seem too worried, leaning against their family car. The comfortable confidence of the middle class. Mom waves at him, beckoning him closer. Dad is frowning, but his mouth is open in expected relief. He hoists Modesty higher on his hip and pats her back. 

“It fell in your room.” 

Credence kisses the side of Modesty’s head and she glares at him. Swats at his face. Chastity laughs and Mom grips her hand, tugging her to prop up the bumper with them. With her free hand, she pulls Credence to her and he goes willingly. 

A man strides over to Mom and Dad, ignoring the kids. He shows his badge to Mom and she nods uncomprehending. He asks to speak to her in private. She lets go of Chastity and Credence to pull her dressing gown around her. She smirks and shrugs a shoulder. The man looks to Dad and sighs. He looks behind him and a man in a matching suit trots over. He hands out official looking documents printing on bad yellow paper. Mom and Dad sign with more shoulder shrugging. 

“Okay,” the men say in union. One frowns at the other and says alone, “We’ll get you to that hotel now.”

\--- 

“Caspar Crouch.”

Mom strokes her hand down Dad’s tummy. Her red nails sunspots against the pale peach of his shirt. 

“From high school. The only Mormon.”

Dad breathes heavily through his mouth. His chest expanding. Taps the remote against the hotel’s too thin bedspread.

“He died. Fell down dead in front of the library, the day before he was due to go on mission.”

Mom tucks her index finger through the secret space between buttons.

“Doomed. Bad luck like that. He was doomed.”

Mom leans up to look Dad in the face. “’For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’.”

Dad nods. “That gives Credence a fighting chance.”

\---

Credence doesn’t have any friends. He waits at the school bus stop with Modesty and Modesty’s friends. The three of them are tiny girls with long hair. They mirror the dolls they still insist on bringing to school. Credence worries for them. School is not preparing them for the world. 

Boys from his grade lurk in the trees nearby. Smoking, trying to see in at Mrs. Lyle’s window. Their insecurity catches Credence in the act of grimacing at them. 

“Barebone! Kiddie fiddler,” One of them spits at the ground. 

“Worse. Fucking fag.” His buddy grins and jostles the other in agreement. 

“God wants you dead, Barebone.”

Modesty gasps at that. She puts Ariel, the soft-cheeked doll in her bag and takes a defiant step towards the three boys who tower over her. Credence puts his hand on her shoulder and turns her the face the approaching bus. 

\---

“The inhuman voice whistled round the gallery and the Boy sat silent. It was he this time who was being warned; life held the vitriol bottle and warned him: I’ll spoil your looks. It spoke to him in the music, and when he protested that he for one would never get mixed up, the music had its own retort at hand: ‘You can’t always help it. It sort of comes that way.’” Ms Goldstein does not have a good reading voice and she knows it. She has lost her audience. Even Credence Barebone, the bright boy with the thoughtful face has his head turned to the window. 

She hoists herself up to sit on her creaking yellow wood desk and knocks her heels against it. Several kids sit up straighter. “So, what do we think?” With the book in hand, she gestures lazily about the room. Chalk particles drift in the weak morning sunlight. 

“Is Greene arguing that there is no autonomy? That there is a set, deterministic path?”

Ms Goldstein pauses, deliberately and lengthily. 

Joanie’s voice breaks the silence, ringing out, “I don’t get why there aren’t any rocks. It’s called Brighton Rock.”

Credence holds his breath. Ms Goldstein stands, mouth a flat unhappy line. The door suddenly swings open. 

The class scrambles to their feet, chairs scraping back clumsily at the sight of the principal. Madame Picquery tamps her hand down on the air, “Sit, sit.” She wears a long dress of forest greens that both matches their school uniform and sets her apart as leader. She emanates control over the cold mint of the classroom. 

She steps in, ushering forward a man in a neatly fitted black wool coat. She folds her hand in front of her. “This is Mister Graves. You will see him this week for your physics lesson.”

Picquery does not describe him as new. Clearly a ploy. The man is nothing like anything they’ve ever seen before. Sharp oxford shoes and flamboyant dragonfly tiepin. Mr Graves nods. Picquery looks at him, perhaps expecting him to say something. Awkwardly the class watch them watch each other. 

Finally, Madame Picquery shakes Ms Goldstein’s hand and takes Mr Graves by the elbow and closes the door behind them. 

\---

At lunch, Credence sits at a wooden picnic table. He has _Brighton Rock_ open, but has half an eye on Modesty and her dance troop practicing on the grass. They’re good, but not great. Credence worries that when faced with real competition they’ll feel shamed for having enjoyed something they can’t win at. 

Mr Graves approaches the other side of the table. He has a paper cup of coffee. “Can I sit here?” 

Credence shrugs. Mr Graves goes ahead and takes a seat opposite him. He sips his drink in fast slurps. It’s too hot. Credence thumbs page 104 of the book. 

“Did you grow up here?” Mr Graves has thick eyebrows that slant at an angle Credence has seen before on the face of a teacher. 

_Why are you sat alone?_

_Why don’t you play with the other children?_

_Why must you behave this way?_

It’s patronising and Credence wants to walk away. He nods. Mr Graves grins at him. Straight, white teeth sharp. They looks like a warning. He sniffs and rubs the back of his hand under his nose, points at Credence. “Smart kid.”

Credence’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t get called smart. He knows he is. His test scores are testament. He is all other things first: Bad, mad and sad, but not smart. 

“Listen. I’ve never taught private school jerks. You got any tips?”

Credence tilts his head to the side. Mr Graves’s tiepin glints. “Don’t let them know you’re a fuck-up.” Credence stands and strides away. Behind him he can hear Mr Graves’s startled laughter. 

\---

Dad always drives Credence to therapy. He always asks, “How was school?”

“Fine.” Credence unbuttons his collar. “New teacher.”

Dad glances at him before focusing on the road ahead. “Oh yeah?” He taps the steering wheel. “Hey, there was something about it in the school news bulletin. A science teacher? From New York.”

Credence hums in his throat. 

Dad huffs a laugh. “Big shot burnt out by inner-city kids.”

The suburbs roll past them. They’re heading to the edge of the county. 

“So, the construction guys say it’ll take about a week to fix the roof.”

Credence looks out the window. The sky is a crisp blue. “Do they know where it came from?”

Dad sighs. “No … apparently they can't tell us what happened yet. Something about a matching serial number that got burned.” He turns down a dirt track. “I still had to sign a form saying I wouldn't talk to anyone about it.”

Credence considers this. Swallows. Suddenly, a shout is punched from him, he throws his arm out across Dad as he hits the breaks hard. Dust swirls about the car and they both sit back, breathing heavily. 

Dad’s hands fall deadweight to his thighs. “Jesus.”

“The witch,” Credence whispers. 

A woman in white dancing shoes, seemingly unaware of their arrival takes mouse steps forward, making her way past the car to her house. She wears a shimmering pink dress, tied at the waist with an elaborate bow. She uses the edge of the car hood to aid her tottering movement. 

Dad opens the car door and leans an elbow on the roof. Credence edges out and around. He’s cautious. He steps close to her. Allows her to grip his shoulder. Her scalp peeps through her thin, blonde hair. She smells like _Johnson’s_ baby powder. Credence leads her to her front door. She abruptly leans forward, holds him tightly. Exhales, “Every living creature... on this earth... dies alone.”

Back in the car, Dad says, “You shouldn’t call her that. She’s that nice Ms Goldstein’s sister.”

\---

Credence stopped talking to Mr Scamander a long time ago. He stopped talking to any therapist after middle school. 

“Credence. Good to see you again.” Mr Scamander stands in the doorway, red hair reflecting the autumn of his home. He always has his heating on too high and a rush of warm air hits Credence. He goes up on tip-toes to wave at Credence’s dad sat in the car on the drive before taking Credence by the hand. “I want to show you something.” 

They go out into Mr Scamander’s conservatory. They brush their way past waxy leaves of various plants before Mr Scamander points at a cardboard box. “Go, look.”

Credence crouches down on the umbra tiles and tugs at the flap of the box. “Oh!”  
He grins at Mr Scamander. 

Mr Scamander nods and comes to sit beside Credence. He taps Credence’s knees to get him to settle, feet folded under calves. Mr Scamander reaches into the box and pulls out a tawny rabbit fit in the cup of his hands. He passes the sleeping creature to Credence who holds it close to his chest. He runs a carefully finger over the top of the rabbit’s head. “Is it a girl?”

Mr Scamander smiles. “She is. What should we call her?”

They sit in silence for a long time. The telephone in the hall rings, but Mr Scamander makes no move to answer it. He fetches pillows from the wicker sofa and gets Credence to sit up to tuck it under him, keeping the rabbit still. He pats his own, the stuffing all lumpy, before taking his seat again. 

“Rose.”

“Rose? That’s very pretty. It suits her.”

Credence wiggles. Rose stays asleep. 

“I think you might know Dylan, from school. He lives on this street. The family is moving away and they can’t take her with them.” Mr Scamander rearranges the straw in the box. “The mother – Mrs …” The es lingers on Mr Scamander’s tongue. He looks up at the glass ceiling, hissing gently, unknowingly. Credence nearly giggles. “I’ve forgotten the family’s name. I suppose it’s only fair, as they didn’t tell me rabbit’s name.” He shrugs and stands, but bends over, hands on his thighs, head close to the rabbit. 

“Rose is a good choice and will last her into adulthood.” Mr Scamander speaks with a British accent and Credence thinks he sometimes sounds like he is on stage. “I’ll fetch us some tea, shall I?”

Credence nods. He can feel Rose’s heartbeat pitterpatter. She’s heavy with the responsibility of being alive. And yet. Weightless in comparison to Credence’s bunny. He wants her to wake up so that he can see her eyes. He thinks they must be dark, but he can’t get the image of a long white rabbit with red eyes from a petting zoo when he was small out of his head. He doesn’t think about Frank. 

“So.” Mr Scamander’s tartan slippers make their presence known before he does, scuffing on the tile floor. He sets down to large blue mugs of steaming tea. He knows Credence doesn’t like floral taste of herbal teas and so has brought the usual. He calls it builders’ tea. It’s strong with a little milk, a spoonful of sugar to coat the tannins. “Your mum says you’ve not been taking your medication.”

Credence doesn’t say anything. He places Rose back in the box and takes the handle of the mug without picking it up. 

“We don’t talk like we should, Credence, but I like to think that you coming here is good for you. If you don’t take your medicine-“

“I made a friend.”

“Oh?” Mr Scamander sips his tea. It is too hot. 

“Frank. He’s called Frank.”

“From school?”

Credence rubs his wrist. The fading ink is still there. “No. No, not really.” He pushes the shirtsleeve over his other arm up to his elbow and scratches. “He saved my life.” He scratches harder. “I followed him to the golf course when the jet engine fell in my room.” He doesn’t want to move the sleeve concealing the digits, in case Mr Scamander asks about them, but he has to, it is too itchy. “He said the world is going to end.”

A rash is pinking over his arms and over the backs of his hands. Mr Scamander frowns and takes his forearms in his soft hands. “I think you’re allergic to rabbits.”

\---

“All afterschool activities are cancelled today and for the foreseeable future.” Madame Picquery releases the school tannoy button and faces Ms Goldstein across her desk. Ms Goldstein shrugs her shoulder. Picquery rolls her eyes before placing the tip of her middle finger back on the button. “It is uncouth to spread rumours. So, to alleviate any of you from this bad habit, I can confirm that a vandal has made the unwise decision to destroy the records office. The police are involved. If you have anything you would like to say, you should visit the reception desk.”

Picquery pushes the edge of her palm into the tannoy base, moving it away from her. 

“It’s not destroyed … completely,” Ms Goldstein suggests. “The student files-“

“The student files have been taken from the filing cabinets and destroyed, Tina. Set alight in a trashcan. Shredded by hand and flung from the open window. Stuffed into every toilet cistern on that floor of the school.” Picquery’s voice is low. “I have seen some bad kids in my time. But this.” She jabs her forefinger down on the desk. “This I struggle to see as the actions of bad kids.” She leans back in her chair, crosses her left leg over right. “These are the actions of a criminal.”

She looks at the group school photo from last year, hung near the window. “The door was kicked in.” She squints and her top lip wrinkles. “The bricks under the plaster crumbled with the force. Part of the wall needs rebuilding.” Her brow furrows. “I can’t fathom it.”

\---

The afterschool activities ban apparently does not extend to Modesty’s dance troop. Credence isn’t sure what to do. He normally catches the bus home with Modesty and her friends. He just does. He’s thinking that actually, he’s not their chaperone. They look out for one another and what could possibly go wrong on the school bus. He’s spotted Mrs Fisher at the reception desk chatting to Mrs Lakeland and so he supposes that she’s going to drive all the girls home in her obnoxious minibus. He doesn’t know what to do. 

He’s lurking out the front, near the carpool lane. Swinging his backpack from one hand to the other. He feels kinda good thinking about just one thing. He just has this one problem to solve. It’s not life or death. He just has to work out what is best to do and decide to do it. Commit. Own his decision. 

He’s thinking about what would happen if Mrs Fisher developed sudden amnesia and he’d already started walking home, when a black _Buick_ pulls up beside him. 

“Wanna ride home?”

Credence jostles his backpack onto his shoulder and leans down to look in at Mr Graves in the driver’s seat. “Sure.”

They drive a block before Mr Graves thinks to ask, “Hey kid, where do you live?”

“Oh. Rose Street.”

“Really?”

Credence nods. Rolls his lips together. Tucks his tongue against his bottom teeth.

“Ya know,” Mr Graves has a deep voice that strolls confidently. “You shouldn’t swear in front of teachers.” 

Credence looks down at his lap and blushes. Mr Graves roughs his fingers through the long hair at the nape of Credence’s neck. He laughs brashly. “You’re nothing in comparison to the kids I’ve taught before.” He releases his grip on Credence and pushes his folded shirtsleeve higher up his arm. It pulls tight around his bicep. 

Credence blinks. Dad was right. He can feel Mr Graves smirking at the side of his head. He blurts carelessly, “I was in a facility once. I accidently- It was an accident. I burned a new housing development down. It was just one house though. They’d only built one. Just the frame really.” He tucks his hands between his thighs. “A mansion though…”

Mr Graves doesn’t stop smirking. “Well, aren’t you something.”

Credence looks at him. He’s cleanly shaven and despite his folded shirtsleeves, his tiepin is still fixed in place. His dark hair is slicked back, peppered grey at the sides. Credence breathes in. The car smells like incense. He shakes his head. 

“I took your advice, all the same.”

Mr Graves’s wrist bone protrudes prominently, a succinct cliff-edge at the end of his forearm, mottled with tide veins. Credence envisions pushing something soft to it, the flesh of his cheek, just to see it hold its shape. Withstand anything. 

“I’m new in town. No friends, see. Take all the advice I can get.” 

\---

Credence sits in Mr Scamander’s glass grotto on the wicker sofa, nudged between the two ratty cushions. Mr Scamander sits across from him in the matching chair. Rose is burrowed on his lap, twitching her nose while he strokes down her sides. 

“Now, then. All settled, nice and cosy.” Mr Scamander’s index finger tickles up by Rose’s chin before soothing down the fur on her chest. “Now. We’ve tried something new for a while, Credence. I don’t ask you any questions and we water the plants or get out the colouring pencils.”

Credence picks at the sore looking welts left behind from the itching episode. He’s not allowed to hold Rose anymore. He feels thirsty and too hot. Irritated. He rubs his fist into his eye.

“Credence, I need you to tell me about Frank.”

Mr Scamander is watching him. His freckled face contorted in the worried expression of his mother. It is play for pay. Credence knows that look. It comes directly from his parents’ wallet. Mr Scamander doesn't care.

Credence shrugs. Digs his thumbnail into the webbing between his ring and little finger.

“Does Frank … hurt you?”

Mr Scamander’s closes his hand over Rose’s ears. “Does Frank ever make you want to hurt yourself?”

The pressure of his hand falls heavy and Rose’s eyes tilt upward with the force of his petting. “Does Frank ever make you want to hurt other people?”

Credence raises an eyebrow. Suddenly, Rose jerks, attempts to leap from Mr Scamander’s grip. “Oop, hold on.” Mr Scamander half rises from his chair, tucks Rose into the crook of his arm like a baby. “There we go sweetheart. Settle down for mummy.”

Heat blooms on Credence’s cheeks. The back of his neck prickles with embarrassment. 

“Credence, you look a little warm.” Mr Scamander puts Rose in her box and leaves the room murmuring, “I’ll get you some water.”

“He’s a dummy,” Frank says. He sits real close to Credence. Fur arm draped over his shoulders. “Just ignore him.” Frank leans his heavy rabbit head on Credence’s breastbone. Credence focuses on breathing evenly. Frank is heavy. The metal of his long ear is cool against Credence’s jaw. “It’ll be over soon.”

Mr Scamander bustles back into the room. “There we go.” He hands Credence a glass of water. Frank scratches his ear against Credence’s temple. Credence takes great gulps of water. “Careful, Credence.” Mr Scamander puts his hand on Credence’s shoulder. He takes Frank’s seat. Busybody, Credence thinks. 

Mr Scamander touches the back of his hand to Credence’s forehead. “You feel very warm, Credence. I think you better lie down.”

He leads Credence to a small bedroom at the back of the house, just off the kitchen. In another lifetime it might have been servant’s quarters. He pats the slim iron frame bed and Credence gratefully sprawls. He closes his eyes. He faintly hears Mr Scamander leaving. “I’ll call your dad.”

He rolls onto his back, his shirt is twisted around his waist. He puts his hand on the wall beside him to steady himself. Eyes half-lidded, the late afternoon sun dapples ash fairies between his eyelashes. Frank looks down at him through Gollum eyes from the foot of the bed. “You should rest. It’s hard being you.”

“He’s trying to help.”

Frank tips his head back and all Credence can see is the underside of his chin. Stubble and just healing shaving scratch. Freckles, the pimple of an ingrown hair. He feels queasy. He clenches his eyes tight shut. The skin of Mr Graves’s smooth, pale face drifts into his mind. The messy point of his mouth, where the red of his lips turns pebble pink. The jut of his jaw poised over his neat collar. The sparkle of his tiepin. Credence’s hand drifts over his stomach. Under his rucked-up shirt. He runs his fingertip over the trail of hair above his bellybutton. His eyes leak confused tears and his elbows feel weak. He rocks his knees from side to side. He’s too warm. 

Mr Scamander knocks at the door before opening it, his voice a step in front of him, “Your dad’s here.” Credence jolts with a gasp, slowly lowers his feet to the ground, hunches over his thighs. Tries to give Mr Scamander a smile.

\---

Mr Graves is talking about the photoelectric effect and Credence has lost concentration. Somebody’s drawn a crude likeness of Einstein on the chalkboard. Credence doesn’t think it should have been Mr Graves, but that it probably was. He’s gesturing wildly with his chalk and talking about electrons being granted freedom by photons and Credence is indifferent.

He’s had a stomach for two days and Mom won’t let him stay at home. 

“Credence. Do you have anything to add on ‘threshold frequency'?” Mr Graves has a sardonic eyebrow arched and a hand on his hip. His chest puffed up defensively under his waistcoat. Credence claps his palm over his mouth suddenly aware of the soft groan he had made. Mr Graves jabs his thumb over his shoulder at the door. “Go on. Go see the nurse.”

\---

“Queenie? You home?”

Out of habit, Tina touches the _mezuzah_ as she steps into the old Goldstein family home. She laboriously stamps her feet on the doormat to dispel collected dust from the track outside. She wonders, yet again, if she’ll get a chance to pave it over come summer. 

Queenie expectedly doesn’t answer, but she waves at Tina from her place on the couch. Tina smiles at her. She sets down a pale pink box next to the steaming teapot Queenie already has laid out. “Cherry Danishes. Just like I promised.”

\---

Mom and Dad have refitted his room nearly identical to how it was before. They’ve bought him a new _Joy Division_ poster and filled up the new bookshelves. The pulp fiction he likes and the southern gothic. An inexpiable immaculate set of Dickens that Credence knows he won’t read. Frank lounges behind him on the new queen-sized bed. “You got away with it. Don't worry.”

Credence presses his palms over his chest. Measures the depth of his inhale and exhale. The room is spotless, but he feels cluttered. Smog drifting in currents from his ears, in through his nose. 

“I can do anything I want. So can you.” 

Credence feels Frank push his heels into his lower back. He ignores him. Puts his hands over his ears. Breathes in. Breathes out. 

 

“The trouble is- Mr Barebone, Mrs Barebone- is that Credence is the only student at this school with a criminal record.” Madame Picquery did not want to have this conversation, but the police are at a loss and reluctant to risk upsetting the wealthy parents of this community. 

“He was cleared of the charges,” Mrs Barebone says through gritted teeth. Her husband squeezes her hand. 

Picquery blinks slowly and does not raise her eyes. “Cleared of the charges in exchange for a residency.”

 

Frank sits up on his knees and takes Credence’s hands away. “It’s all coming to an end.” He rests his chin on top of Credence’s head. 

“Is that why you made me destroy the records office?”

Frank slides his cheek over Credence’s head and down so the metal of his mask sits flush with Credence’s cheekbone. “You believe in me, don’t you, Credence?”

 

“He served his time. He’s a good kid.” Mr Barebone doesn’t like how the odds are stacked. 

 

Credence swallows, opens his mouth-

“Who are you talking to?” Modesty stands at his open door in her nightie. She gathers her long hair to one side of her neck. She sounds worried. Anxious. He doesn’t like to think that he could make her anxious. 

“Nobody. Nobody, Modesty.” He shakes his head. He checks the calendar. 28 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes, 12 seconds.

\---

“Credence.” Principal Picquery is beautiful Credence decides. She has curling eyelashes that he is envious of. “I am very worried about you.”

He stares at her neck. She has a gossamer thin scarf wrapped around it several times, layers building. It looks like stained glass, melted and overlapping. “You seem to only exist in this office.”

Madame Picquery shifts in her seat. The leather squeaks. 

“I’ve never seen you alone outside this office.” Credence looks around the room, devoid of anything personal. “As though, you must have a familiar, or an agent, to accompany you. To create your existence.” He doesn’t know if he’s thinking or speaking. He can’t feel his mouth moving, but he thinks he can hear his voice. 

\---

Credence taps his pencil on his desk, stalling as the other kids pack up and file out of Ms Goldstein’s classroom. As the door closes on the last of them, he heads up to her desk. She’s wiping down the chalkboard and startles when he calls her name.

She brushes a hand down her front. “What can I do for you, Credence?”

He shuffles from one foot to the other. She waits. “You think Pinkie could have been redeemed?”

Ms Goldstein crosses her arms. “Well. We’ve discussed some of the Catholic themes that run through Graham Greene’s writing.” She’s hesitant to engage Credence. 

“He knew he was doomed, though.”

“You think?”

“Sure. ‘Hell was something he could trust.’ He knew he was an anomaly- No. An abomination.” Credence shrugs his backpack on. “That’s in me too. A deviation.” 

“Credence.” Ms Goldstein’s face is scrunched unflatteringly. “If you want to talk about… anything-“

Credence interrupts her, “Madame Picquery says I’m not to come into school next week.” He lofts a hand in the air and breezes past Ms Goldstein. “Later.”

\---

Credence had been mindlessly staring at the television, but Mom had chased him out the living room. Dr Fisher and Mrs Fisher were due to arrive any minute. Curled on his side on his new bed that still doesn’t feel right, he can sense Frank’s hand hovering over his ribcage. The smell of burnt wood fill his nose and he refuses to see what might happen. 

He dashes down the back stairs and into the garage. He sets out on his bike. Fast, but aimless. He circles his block a couple of times. The night-time settling of pigeons overhead gives him the idea to head up the ridge of the canyon. As he cycles, a _Buick_ reminds him that he’s in tartan pyjama-bottoms, black hoodie and battered sneakers. He was this poorly dressed the last time he rode through wilderness. He reconsiders. 

He follows the car into the lights of town before he looses it in the flowing traffic. He finds himself in a part of downtown he’s not familiar with. There are people milling everywhere. A sense that something is happening. A busyness that Credence is not often witness to. A young man, leaning against a brick wall, smirks at him. Blows a kiss at him. Shakes his hips before walking away to join a group of friends. 

Two of the friends are kissing passionately. One of the men roughs his hand over the shaved head of his partner, trailing it down to fit into his back pocket. He looks up as the newly arrived young man pokes him in the chest. He throws his head back and laughs. Something makes him twist at the hip. A cheeky pinch to his waist. He catches sight of Credence, pushes both friends away from him and begins to stalk over. He doesn’t look as he crosses the street and a car honks loudly. He thrusts his middle finger at the driver. 

Before Credence can escape, Mr Graves grabs him by the bicep. “What are you doing here, kid?”

Credence can smell the whiskey on his breath and feels drunk on the audacity of the question. His mouth goes lazy. “Probably not what you’re doing here, Mister Graves.” An ugly giggle tips out from him. 

Mr Graves grips him tighter. Credence nearly knocks his bike over, leaning back. “Jesus, don’t say that here.” He looks around furtively. “Percival. It’s Percival.”

“Oh right,” Credence leers. 

Mr Graves takes the handlebars of Credence’s bike and drags it from between his legs, forcing him to teeter-totter out the way. He drags Credence and the bike to the edge of an alley and Credence nearly starts to feel sick. 

“I don’t know you’re doing here. If you’re looking to start trouble, or if you’re” he eyes Credence up and down “looking for something. But you can take your teen angst and your hormones and go the fuck home.”

Credence, chastened, blushes. He juts his chin the air. “Fuck you.”

\---

He feels uncomfortable. Sweat rings his underarms, staining the fern green of his t-shirt shadow dark. He can smell his own scent. He hates basketball. He sits on the locker-room bench, arms braced on his knees. He takes a couple of calming breaths. He just closes his eyes when a sharp pain ricochets across his spine. 

“We know it was you, Barebone.”

His eyes flash open and find Kevin Johnson’s palm still spread retreating from his stinging back. 

Credence shakes his curls back behind his ears. Runs his hands through his damp hair. He frowns at Kevin, but says nothing.

Jimmy kicks him in the shin for that and he doubles over to seize the pain, if he could. Kevin takes his chance and slaps him across the face. Credence jerks up, he is taller than both of them. He stumbles away from the bench, goes to reach for Kevin, but he can’t see. His vision is blurry, he touches his fingertips to his eye. It’s swollen already. Jimmy guffaws and pushes his hand into Credence side as he walks past. He looses his balance and falls gracelessly to the floor. 

Kevin spits at him. “You’re scum, Barebone. Own up so we can get practice back.” 

They walk away. Rage sated. They don’t care about sport or clubs or any afterschool activities. He wouldn’t come clean for them. In any case, he didn’t do it. 

\---

He doesn’t want to go home. He’s not sue how Mom and Dad will react to the jagged red bruising smattered from the outer edge of his eyebrow to the lower curve of his eye-socket. He’s sat on the curb at the front of school. Thinking about what to do. His head feels thick with the burden of decision, but clear like a white spotlight helping him to breathe freely. 

“Oh dear, what are we going to do with you, eh?” Mr Graves groans and his knees creak as he sits next to Credence. 

“I’m sleepy." He turns his head to look at Mr Graves. 

Mr Graves titters softly. “Aren’t we all.” He puts his hand on the back of Credence neck and Credence flinches, his hair is still sweat-slicked. It feels good though, the pressure of Mr Graves’s fingers. “You’re tired because you were up late last night.”

Credence bows his head, granting Mr Graves better access. He says to the ground, “So were you.”

Mr Graves brings up his other hand to properly massage Credence’s shoulders. “Hmmm. I’m an adult.” He drops his hands. He wrings them together between his outstretched legs. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

“Come on. I’ll get you some ice and you can tell me who hit you.”

Credence assumes that Mr Graves will take him into the teachers’ lounge, but doesn’t protest when he guides him to his car. 

Mr Graves’s home looks a lot Credence’s. Except the white of the walls and furniture has a modern bachelor effect rather than the country cottage of his mother’s decorating. Percival takes his tiepin and tosses it into a small dish on the hallway stand. Undoes his tie so that it hangs either side of his neck.

The kitchen is vast. Percival hands him a tall glass of fresh orange juice before leaning back against the deep butcher’s sink. He carefully scans Credence’s face. “I don’t want you to feel ashamed.”

“I’m not ashamed.” Credence lingers by the oven, orange tang prickling his upper lip. He licks it away. 

Percival moves towards him, cups his jaw. Thumbs avoiding the skin under his eyes. Kisses him softly. Kisses him again. Credence angles his hips towards Percival so as to place his glass on the kitchen island. So as to get closer to Percival. He fists his hands into the draped tie and tugs. Percival laughs at him for that and closes his hands over his. Credence lets go so that Percival can unbutton his shirt. He wraps his arms around Percival’s broad shoulders. Percival’s tongue slides along the roof of his mouth, presses against his, making him moan softly. Making him massage the heel of his hand into the flesh of Percival’s trapezius. 

Credence allows Percival to tuck his hands under his thighs, hoist him up onto the marble surface, cold even through his pants. He hisses through his teeth, bites emptily at Percival’s mouth, grins at his answering whispered giggle. Percival kneads the muscle above his knees, his hand closer to his stiffening cock. He unbuckles Credence’s belt, pulls his pants and underwear down to his ankles. Credence feels stupid, but it bubbles up inside him like mischief and not tendrils of doubt. 

He takes Credence in his hand, strokes him once, twice. Rubs his thumb over Credence’s slit. He chucks Credence under the chin, forces their eyes to meet before ducking his head and hollowing his mouth around Credence’s length. Credence slides his hands into Percival’s hair. Grips tightly. Lets his hand follow the motion of Percival. His brow furrows. His tummy feels tight. It’s good. It’s exciting. He grins up at the ceiling, catches his bottom lip between his teeth.

Credence’s hips stutter, too hard. Percival pushes his thighs down and allows Credence to come in his mouth. He swallows. Hurriedly he pulls himself from his pants while he pecks his mouth up Credence’s torso, mouth only getting so far before coming into contact with his shirt. Percival uses the force of his kiss on Credence’s wet mouth to spread Credence out, pushes his cock into soft crevice below his hip. Shifts rhythmically, playfully presses his mouth against Credence’s cheek, breathes heavy. His exhale pauses as he comes and then washes over Credence’s sternum. He lays his head there, panting. 

Later, with Percival in the shower behind him, Credence looks at his freshly washed face in the mirror. His smile gone cheeky. Arrogant. He feels young. Frank whispers, “Now you know where he lives.”

\---

Chastity passes him the scoop. Credence isn’t making much progress with his pumpkin. He’s sliced the top off and is contemplating his design. He’s got a marker jammed between his teeth. Modesty isn’t much interested in pumpkin carving, so it falls to him and Chastity. He doesn’t mind, but he’s struggling to come up with something as cool as Chastity’s _Freddy_ hand. 

“It’ll split. You’ll get ink all in your mouth.” Chastity quirks at eyebrow at him and he half-heartedly frowns at her. He removes the pen from his mouth. Wipes it on the edge of his sweater. 

“I got into Dartmouth.”

Credence looks at Chastity’s hopeful smile. “Good job, kid.” He presses the pen gently to the uneven pumpkin surface and doesn’t jump when Chastity wraps her arms around him.

 

“Thank you for coming to see me.” Mr Scamander is glad that Mr and Mrs Barebone are open to a conversation about Credence’s progress. When he last had a talk with them, he had explained that Credence refused to talk to him in a meaningful way and they had asked if he ‘could just keep visiting, any way.’

“We just want to do what’s best for Credence,” Mr Barebone says. “It’s like people don’t believe us when we say that. Nothing could be more true.” His wife squeezes his hand. 

“Let me just lay out what I believe is happening here. Credence’s new behaviour seems to stem from his increased detachment from reality.” Mr Scamander clears his throat. “His inability to cope with the forces in the world that he perceives to be threatening.”

Mrs Barebone smiles nervously at him. Encouraging him to tell her more, but not wanting to hear it. Wanting the floor to open up and welcome her to a different timeline. One where Credence was more like his sisters. 

“Has Credence ever spoken to you about Frank?”

Mr and Mrs Barebone look at one another before turning to Mr Scamander. “No.” Mrs Barebone’s voice is choked. 

“Credence describes him as a ‘friend’. He wears a rabbit suit. Credence is experiencing what is commonly called a daylight hallucination.”

“Ah.” Mr Barebone looks away. “What can we do,” he asks he edge of the rug.

“The medication that Credence-“

Mrs Barebone throws her hands up in the air before burying her face in them. She sobs and Mr Barebone rubs her back. 

 

“That’s good. I like it.” Chastity pokes her finger in the gap of Credence’s pumpkin silhouette. She circles her finger around Frank’s yellow eyehole. “Remember that bunny hot water bottle you had?”

\---

Credence wakes up gasping for air. Frank looms over him. Credence tries to push him away, but his arm falls limp. He squints and tries to burrow back into his pillow. Frank’s eyes glow lightning white in the dark room. “I’m sleeping.”

“I have something to show you.” 

He doesn’t know what else to do. So he follows Frank to Mr Graves’s house. 

They stand on the street opposite. Looking in at Mr Graves’s living room window. He hasn’t drawn his curtains. The room is dimly lit by a _Tiffany_ floor lamp. 

“Why do they call you Frank?”

“It is the name of my father... and his father before me.”

Credence sighs. He watches Percival hold the hips of a body that Credence recognises the movement as the young man from downtown. It’s too dark really to see anything at all and they’re too far away. Credence sighs. He knows what Frank wants him to imagine. The _Playboy_ stamp on the man’s chest, just above his nipple. Credence refuses to walk that particular path. 

“Burn it to the ground.”

Mr Graves’s mouth detaches from the man’s neck. He looks, unseeing out into the night. Credence raises his hand. He walks away. Frank calls his name, but he ignores it. All the way home, Frank chants his name into his ear. Credence. Credence. Until the word loses all meaning. No fervent belief here. Credence. 

“Credence?” His mother’s voice breaks him out of his reverie. He’s stood in front of the open fridge. “Are you alright?”

“How does it feel to have a wacko for a son?”

Mom regards him seriously. She closes the fridge door. Resists pulling him to her. “It feels wonderful.”

\---

Credence is clearing out his locker when the points of black oxfords smart his peripheral vision. He stands up and avoids Mr Grave’s gave before relenting. Mr Graves puts his hands in his pockets and tilts his head. “Come on.”

They go to the parking lot and sit in Mr Graves’s car. Credence rubs his hands over his thighs. He wonders what Mr Graves would say if anyone saw them. The principal. Ms Goldstein, even. Mr Graves faces front, staring at the wall in front of them.

“Credence, I shouldn’t have taken you home like that.” He turns to face him. He looks worried. “I’m a teacher. And I shouldn’t-“ He sucks his tongue in his mouth, making a snapping sound. “There’s something about you-“ He stops himself. He puts his hand on Credence’s knee before snatching it back again. 

“I’m going to go now, Mister Graves.”

“Credence.”

Credence stares at him and feels nothing. 

\---

It’s a Saturday. 31st October. 28 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes, 12 seconds, thinks Credence. He’s tailing after his Dad in _Safeway_ before therapy. Dad’s buying _Pepsi_ and _Celeste_ pizzas and _Dawn_ dish liquid. They bump into Ms Goldstein. Dad asks after her sister, while Credence pretends to be invisible. 

She tells Dad that she’s got a new job. In New York. Dad makes a bad joke about the type of people who live in the big city. Ms Goldstein has good humour though and explains that New York is her home and she’s excited about taking Queenie back there.

“Queenie?”

“My sister’s name.”

“Ah. Pretty.” Credence watches Dad try not to roll his eyes. 

Ms Goldstein turns to Credence. She hands him a four-pack of cherry yogurt. She smiles at him. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

\---

Credence sits with Mr Scamander at his dining room table. They each have a cherry yogurt. “I destroyed the records office.”

Mr Scamander puts his spoon down. “Did Frank tell you to do that?”

Credence nods uncontrollably. His head juddering unnaturally from his neck. He spatters yogurt over his hand. He brings it to his mouth like he’s been burned. Mr Scamander rushes to kneel in front of him. He holds Credence’s shoulders. “Why did you do that, Credence?”

Credence shakes. His eyes roll into the back of his head. He feels ill. He doesn’t want to puke on nice Mr Scamander. He stands up, shakes his head, pushes past Mr Scamander and wobbles towards the conservatory. He takes Rose from her new rabbit hutch and hugs her to his chest. She’s so small. He feels like he might cry

Mr Scamander watches him and hovers close. 

He strokes Rose erratically. “I had to do what he wanted me to.” 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Credence.” 

Credence begins crying. Loud sobs that rattle up in his throat. His tears drip onto Rose’s fur. His arms itch and he thrusts her towards Mr Scamander. He quickly puts her back in the hutch and grabs Credence by the waist as he begins to stagger away. He pushes his hand over Credence’s forehead, smoothing back his clammy bangs. He wrangles them both to the floor. Credence slumped in his lap. He shushes gently. 

They stay like that for a long while Credence getting his breathing under control. “He told me to burn down Mr Graves’s house.”

Mr Scamander hesitates. “And did you?”

Credence sits up straight. “No.” He heaves a great sigh. “No. Today is the end.” 

\---

“Credence Barebone,” Tina says to Queenie. She takes a bite of pastry, the tart sweetness of the cherries still taking her by surprise. 

Queenie nods her head slowly. Pats Tina’s knee. Thumbs the _shafan_ embroidered onto the small couch pillow. 

\---

Credence sits on the curb outside Mr Graves’s house. Watches the removal men bustle around the driveway. Watches as Mr Graves gets into his car without looking up and speeds off down the street. A boy in dungarees approaches Credence. “Did you know him?”

“No.” Credence puts his hands in his pockets. “Frank did.”


End file.
